No Rhetorian Whore

She was nineteen when they met at a party thrown by a mutual friend, ending the year with the bang of tequila shots and the vapid haze of homegrown weed. It was a soft tumble from the lazy frat boy smile to the three-block walk to his apartment, and she made a clumsy job of walking on too high heels and an uncoordinated series of attempts to light a cigarette.

She was twenty-four when he took her the first time, though only an hour had passed since they bid the friend farewell and took their leave from the smoke-filled crowd. They made hasty introductions over a pile of shed clothing in the semi-darkness, the cynicism of James Hetfield staring in derision from a tattered poster on the back of the door. Between the rapid groan and release of the first time and the marathon second, she burnt two holes in the bedspread and had to pee once.

She was twenty-eight when he started to talk. Philosophy and poetry read from a dog-eared copy of Norton’s he would have done better to have sold back to the used bookstore off campus when the last semester ended. The sound of him was a drone growing to a high-pitched whine, eventually becoming an all out assault on her senses when he turned to South African politics.

She was thirty-four when she slipped her feet back into the too high heels, the buzz of the liquor and pot burning away with the dawn. She thought he slept in alcohol-induced coma, but he turned as she reached for the doorknob under Hetfield’s left boot.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the dorm. Your sophistry fails to move me.”

No Rhetorian Whore

StephanieWright

Conway, United States

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